From: friedman@cis.ohio-state.edu (Mark "Crimson" Friedman)
Subject: Trance Entrance [part 1/at least 2]
Date: 25 Jun 92 14:50:30 GMT
Well, since it *is* so slow around here, I may as well post my
[almost] "entrance" post for Freddy. I toyed with it a while
ago, so there's some inconsistencies with the Freddy in "Three of
a Perfect Pair" (of which more episodes are coming, probably next
week).
So sit back, screw continuity, and have some fun...
\/\/\/\/\/\/\/\/\/\/\/\/\/\/\/\/\/\/\/\/\/\/\/\/\/\/\/\/\/\/\/\/\
"Thanks a lot, eh?", the young man said to the HoverCab
jock. He smiled as he took back his credichip. He was standing
on the curb with his gear, leaning against the cab with one hand
so he didn't have to stand in the large puddle the vehicle was
hovering over. "Have a good one, eh?"
"No prob, kid." the cabbie half-grinned, only out of
courtesy. The night was shitty, and he felt the same way. But
the customer is *always* right. He drove away wondering what
made some people so damn optimistic. After all, *he* sure
wasn't...
Frederick Marx sighed and looked up into the slow drizzle
falling from above. It reminded him of the mist that came off
the Falls and made him a bit homesick. But it was for the best,
he reminded himself. He had already made his decision to leave
corp life. He couldn't give a chip whether he jacked in again or
not. Cyberspace was not his way: music was. It peeved him that
he didn't find this out until after he'd wasted a Masters degree
in Matrix Theory and committed himself to a corporation for three
years.
Anyway, here he was at the end of his first lead. Freddy
heard that he might get a gig at this "Chatsubo" place, even
though it wasn't a big tune-joint. Seems that the regular lounge
lizard had recently set up residence in a whiskey bottle, or
something to that effect. "Whatever," he muttered, "As long as I
can play my stuff for a few nights..." He pulled out a small
card with the proprietor's name. "Ratz. Rats? So like what:
this guy has fur and a tail or something? Geeez, eh?"
He moved himself and his equipment over to a covered
Metro bench to get out of the rain. He looked himself over in
the reflection of some woman's mirror-shades in a cigarette add.
"Sheesh, I hate travelling." He looked like crap. Normally he
wouldn't care: he was never one for appearance, which was
surprising for one entering the music biz. But he was going to
talk to a potential employer in a few minutes, so...
His blonde hair was incredibly long in both the front and
back, with the sides being shaved rather short, and it was now a
little soggy from the night's slow precipitation. He bent over
and dried the front of his mop with the tail of his open flannel
shirt. Pulling out a brush, he fluffed it up a bit and parted it
on the right, letting it fall to completely cover his left eye.
He grinned mischieviously into the mirror portion of the ad-
board. The smirk on his face once described as demonic. Freddy
liked it though, and it graced his promotion package. It showed
he wasn't fluff. "Bloody glam-rockers..."
"Well, may as well do a gear-check, eh?", he shrugged.
It seemed that employees of the transportation industry were re-
quired to be be both tone-deaf and easily annoyed. Hardly any-
body let him play the whole way to his destination. Well, his
physical destination, at least. In a Zen-like fashion, he was
far from the end of his travels. He shrugged again and went down
the list...
He reached down to his belt and flipped the power switch
to his Roland PR-128 and crouched down beside his soft-side gig-
bag. After digging in it for a short while he pulled out a black
meter-long cord and inserted one end into his skull, into the
small circular 5-pin jack labeled "MIDI OUT". He then stuck the
other end of the cord into the PR-128. He smiled and thought
some music...
Sound came out of the two thinline speakers sewn into the
front of his long, black, high-collared overcoat. Full stereo
digital magic. As usual, it contained that signature two gamelan
counterplay: one part he would make go in 7/8 while the other
would peddle along in plain 4 (for this composition, at least).
The metric differences would resolve their polyrhythmic dispute
every seven measures, only to diverge again like superimposed
trigonometric functions. "Hey, nifty song title", he thought,
and quickly wrote "superimposed trigonometric function" down on
his notepad while still thinking the music.
He thought over the next part while the gamelan were
chattering out their entwining major pentatonic conversation.
Happy music, but a bit too oriental, some said. Freddy always
filled in the historical blanks by pointing out that the style
originally came from Bali, but most Americans lumped the entire
Asian continent together as one culture all the same. "Too bad",
he thought.
He added some percussion. Some log drums provided a nice
earthy beat, but he added an all too typical 2-4 snare for a
backbeat. People loved to dance, but the ex-decker never under-
stood why. What perplexed him even more was their infatuation
with 4/4. Personally, he thought good sex was more like 5/8.
Freddy liked to bring that up at parties but the point (and con-
cept) was usually missed...
Now he added a string pad and started a changing cycle on
the previously static chord pattern. Still, it was happy music.
Simple was good every once in a while: after all, it got kind of
hard to think those M7b9/Aug4/Dim13/etc chords all the time! He
picked up one of his instrument cases, set it on the bench, and
opened it.
It was his Chapman Stick - a ten-stringed instrument
designed to be tapped with the fingers of both hands. It sounded
like a bass and a guitar, and was played like a piano. Freddy
picked it up, applied the belt hook, and started to play along
with the synth parts of his composition.
With his left hand he invented a patially muted, thumping
bass line. He decided to alter this a bit with some outboard
signal processing. He tweaked the GP-64 on his belt and added a
single slapback delay, echoing the same tone an eighth note
later. Freddy also decided to add a bit of flanging, opting for
a slow, wide pattern that steadily twisted the harmonics of the
bass side of the Stick.
As for the treble part, it was eventually patched through
a harmonizer and scalar quantizer. Thusly he was able to play
simple, sliding leads without much effort: the electronics inter-
polated the "right" intervals from random stabs and passes on the
fretboard, whilst preserving the initial feel and emotion of the
line.
"Nice." He turned to see a flatfoot standing on the
sidewalk, "But do you have a permit?"
He sighed, "Errr, not for Chiba, at least..." and stopped
playing. "But I was just checking my gear, eh?"
The cop nodded, "Yeah. Okay. It's not like the captain
would pat me on the back for busting a street musician, anyway."
He laughed. "We have quite enough problems with gang wars, murd-
ers, and public assassinations as it is. Lovely place."
"Yeah. Errr, well, then could you tell me where this
place
The cop eyed him carefully. "Now, *that's* a hotbed of
suspicious activity? What you want there?"
"Got a gig." Freddy pointed to his Stick.
Shrugging, "Whatever. Three blocks thattaway..." He
thumbed down the darker direction of the street. "And try not to
get into any trouble, see?" He twirled one of his tonfa twice
around his ring finger, pointed to Freddy with it, and continued
down the sidewalk in the other direction.
"Thanks, eh?" he called after the cop. He finished pack-
ing the equipment, turned up the collar of his coat, and stepped
back into the drizzle towards the bar while mumbling, "Chatsubo,
Chatsubo..."
[to be continued]
\/\/\/\/\/\/\/\/\/\/\/\/\/\/\/\/\/\/\/\/\/\/\/\/\/\/\/\/\/\/\/\/\
Yeah, yeah, Copyright (C) TM (R) etc. stuff 1992 to me and every-
thing like that kinda stuff, ya know? Hell, screw the legal
crap: it's just for fun, eh?
Comments welcome and appreciated...
--
+----====>>>))) Mark Friedman is friedman@cis.ohio-state.edu (((<<<====----+
| "There is nothing former | "If you put a hungry ferret in your |
| about King Crimson." | trousers, he'll run around..." |
| - Robert Fripp, 5/11/90 | - Nigel Tufnel (Spinal Tap) |
From: friedman@cis.ohio-state.edu (Mark "Crimson" Friedman)
Subject: Trance Entrance [part 2/at least 5]
Date: 1 Jul 92 22:54:47 GMT
Just to keep the momentum going (I have a bad habit of dropping
off in the middle of something), I'll forget making this "normal"
size and just go for it while I can...
\/\/\/\/\/\/\/\/\/\/\/\/\/\/\/\/\/\/\/\/\/\/\/\/\/\/\/\/\/\/\/\/\
The neon sign outside the Chatsubo was in disrepair (or
more likely vandalized) so that it now read " HAT SUB ". Freddy
squeegeed the dampness from his hair with the palm of his hand,
cursing the sign for reminding him about his hat, which was most
likely on its way to LAX by this time. Or maybe a stewardess
found it left it at the JAL ticket counter. It could happen.
He pushed open the front door with his foot and negotiat-
ed his bulky equipment through the entrance. "Damn." It smelled
of biz: the smoke, the booze, the cheap perfume, the money. The
place reeked of it. "Damn." It was just the place where he
looked for the sidelining action that drove him half crazy in the
first place.
He squeezed between some tables on his way over to the
bar, making sure not to let his eyes fall upon what was happening
between their occupants. Most of the cold mumbles issued from
very large chrome laden men and were never intended to be
overheard, surely with a great penalty for doing so. Street
samurai and blatant mercs practiced their patented icy stares
across the room at each other, psyche-out, and also for the bene-
fit of potential clients.
Eventually he passed through the gauntlet, reaching the
bar. He looked back at the path of eggshells he had just todden
and breathed a sigh of relief. He also spotted the cyber-jocks
in the more darker corners and dimmer booths of the room. Maybe
he'd check out some tech-talk with the boys later if he had the
time. Wouldn't hurt to scope out the local professional cli-
mate...
"Artiste?" a gravely voice asked behind him.
Freddy panned left to glance at the barkeep: older man,
strong jaw, wide shoulders, and an archaic prosthesis in the
stead of one of his arms. "Some would say that," he replied, "as
I would myself. Gimme a screwdriver, eh?" He slid a credstick
out of his jacket pocket.
The bartender immediately mixed up a screwdriver in a
tumbler, including a quite liberal proportion of vodka. He
pushed the glass towards Freddy and also returned the cred
unused. "You are here to perform, correct?" He motioned towards
Freddy's gear.
"Yup." He took a swig of the drink. "Damn." He coughed.
"Good stuff, eh?"
"Russian. The best."
"Yeah. Speaking of playing," he set the glass down and
took out a notecard, "could you get the manager for me? Guy by
the name of
"He's here." The man spread his arms apart, turning one
palm face up and opening the claw on the other arm. "I am Ratz."
"Ahh, good. I'm Freddy Marx, talked with you over email
a while back."
"'Klone Crimson', yes?"
"Verdad. So, when can I give it a trial run?"
"Now." Ratz took up a cloth and started polishing the
bar.
Freddy looked over at the dimly lit stage where subver-
sive, dark mood music was drifting from. "Isn't there someone
already on now?"
Ratz smiled gap-toothedly. "Just Danny and Floyd. Tell
them to take a break: they've been playing for about three days
straight anyway..."
Freddy squinted his eyes. "Huh?" Ratz simply thumbed
him towards the stage.
\/\/\/\/\/\/\/\/\/\/\/\/\/\/\/\/\/\/\/\/\/\/\/\/\/\/\/\/\/\/\/\/\
More to come, of course.
Once again, certain stuff (c) 1992 to me, though if you're hard
up for cash go ahead and try to sell it. :-) Oh, and the Chat,
Ratz, etc. are Gibson's [w/o permission], and Danny and Floyd
are Jim Gaynor's [w/ permission].
Comments welcome and appreciated, as usual...
--
+----====>>>))) Mark Friedman is friedman@cis.ohio-state.edu (((<<<====----+
| "There is nothing former | "If you put a hungry ferret in your |
| about King Crimson." | trousers, he'll run around..." |
| - Robert Fripp, 5/11/90 | - Nigel Tufnel (Spinal Tap) |
From: friedman@cis.ohio-state.edu (Mark "Crimson" Friedman)
Subject: Trance Entrance [3/i dunno now!]
Date: 3 Jul 92 01:12:06 GMT
Zowie! More kooky stuff. It's still short, but it's coming
along at a satisfying rate, at least...
\/\/\/\/\/\/\/\/\/\/\/\/\/\/\/\/\/\/\/\/\/\/\/\/\/\/\/\/\/\/\/\/\
Frederick Marx took the stairs to the stage in two hops
and walked towards the two musicians already reigning over the
space. They were playing an easy I-vi-IV-V to a heavy tribal
rhythm... which immediately bored him to tears. Executed per-
fectly, yes, but totally uninspired. Of course if *he* had
played for *three* straight days then he'd probably whip out the
kiddie charts, too.
Freddy set down his gear and cleared his throat, "Hey
guys." The one playing bass (with a pick, even: feh) stopped and
turned to him. "Ratz says you guys need a break, eh?"
"He shouldn't worry: we don't get tired. Besides,
Blackjack told us to provide house music until he gets back."
He started unzippering his bags and unloading, "Well,
Ratz is giving me a chance to play, and he owns the place, and
there's only one stage, so..."
"Ahhh, I see. We'll quit then." He motioned to the oth-
er player, who stopped beating the skins. "I'm Danny, and this
is Floyd." Floyd saluted. "We'll be happy to provide backup,
should you desire it."
"No thanks guys. Maybe we can jam a bit before last
call, eh?. Oh, I need a line-in to the house PA. Where is it?"
Danny pointed to a flattened grey cube near the front of
the stage. "There's the transmitter."
"Kool." Freddy took out a wireless unit from his pack.
"Do me a favour and plug me in, eh?" He tossed the unit to Dan-
ny.
The expression on Danny's face was one Freddy had never
seen before. It was an odd mix of concentration, regret, and
apology. The wireless receiver's trajectory brought it to around
the height of Danny's stomach, but his waiting hands did not
grasp it. Instead it passed through his body, bouncing off the
floor behind him.
"Cryminee!" Freddy's jaw dropped as he noticed Danny's
form flicker a bit. "Errr, is this live, or is it Memorex?"
Danny bowed his head. "Sorry. I didn't get the chance
to tell you. We're not really here." He pointed to a holograph-
ic projector on the stage.
He squinted, "Broadcast? Why would you guys broadcast
here?"
"No, you don't understand. Floyd and I are not people:
we are artificial intelligence units, manifesting visual humanoid
forms for performance purposes." The musicians' instruments
disappeared on cue.
"Damn. Had me fooled." He pulled out his six string
fretless bass and put the strap over his shoulder. "So, you guys
can play music?"
Floyd spoke up, "Yes. That's the extent of our program-
ming, besides basic personality models, conversational postu-
lates, and other facets which make human-computer interaction
much smoother."
"Ahhh. Do you play canned stuff, or do you write too?"
He walked around Danny (silly, he thought, as the image was in-
tangible), retrieved the receiver, and plugged it into the grey
cube.
"Our compositional abilities are not as refinied as our
throughout history are at our disposal, and we can interpolate
parallel or tangental inventions from these templates."
"I see. You sound kinda like those Sony units that never
made it to market a few years back. I heard a few of those promo
recordings: too Industrial for my taste, but they were promising.
Are you guys a later version of those systems?"
Danny and Floyd looked into each other's eyes for a mo-
ment and then released. Floyd said steadily, "No, we have noth-
ing at all to do with Sony."
Freddy shrugged. "Whatever. Neat stuff, anyway..." He
plugged the wireless transmitter into his bass. "Well, I'm ready
to do my thing, so if you'd pardon me..."
The holo images waved and flickered out, leaving him
alone, shaking his head. "Funky. Well, back to work..."
\/\/\/\/\/\/\/\/\/\/\/\/\/\/\/\/\/\/\/\/\/\/\/\/\/\/\/\/\/\/\/\/\
Most stuff (c) 1992 to me. Danny and Floyd are Jim Gaynor's
(used with permission).
Drop me a line, eh? Heck, I'll even pull out the "I put up with
his story" PostScript certificates again! :-)
--
+----====>>>))) Mark Friedman is friedman@cis.ohio-state.edu (((<<<====----+
| "There is nothing former | "If you put a hungry ferret in your |
| about King Crimson." | trousers, he'll run around..." |
| - Robert Fripp, 5/11/90 | - Nigel Tufnel (Spinal Tap) |
From: friedman@cis.ohio-state.edu (Mark "Crimson" Friedman)
Subject: Trance Entrance [part 4]
Date: 8 Jul 92 01:45:26 GMT
This is just more atmosphere and set-up in addition to being a
writing exercise (procedural description). Feel free to skip it,
though it's not that long...
\/\/\/\/\/\/\/\/\/\/\/\/\/\/\/\/\/\/\/\/\/\/\/\/\/\/\/\/\/\/\/\/\
Freddy stepped up to the mike and almost whispered in his
sleepy narrator's voice, "Howdy, folks, and welome to the Chatsu-
bo. It's no-cover fun in the land of Night City, so sit back,
relax, and deal that biz. Oh, and feel free to dance if you
think you're up to some 7/4 funk, eh? But first: that new-age
atmosphere thang..."
"Damn, maybe I should have made a set list," he mumbled
after tapping off the mike. "First things first: a little Re-
glamusic..."
Start with the delay pedal on infinite-propagation mode,
but totally blank. Hit harmonics at around the third fret (well,
where the fret would be if it weren't fretless). They really
ring out on the bridge J pickup, especially when going through a
chorus unit. Then quickly tap off-on the hold latch on the
pedal, so that only a short beep is introduced to the repeating
mix. Eventually the beeps build up and sound like the bridge of
the NCC-1701G.
Then comes slinky-sliding lines, all meandering around an
E natural minor scale (well, mostly a pentatonic, actually). Use
the entire neck (nice range on a six-string bass, eh?). Finally,
chord out to a thick E5 and hold.
"Blistering heat
has covered the valley
with dark and haunting
misery..."
Sort of a Gregorian chant as vocals (no real meter to it)
or maybe some sort of mantra. Repeat the vocal melody with the
slinky bass, then run off on a tangent to more similar short bass
improv.
Then for grunge: turn down the volume knob on the bass,
hit the distortion pedal, slap an open E. Hit the repeat latch,
then gradually volume swell the note. BIG sound. Deep, but with
a jagged fuzz edge on top. Fade back down and click the latch
again. The electonic beeps still go on, but softer under the
fuzz. Then more swelled notes: 8va E, G, B. Not too many: the
distortion fills it out as it is, so you gotta make sure it
doesn't get too muddy.
"Leaving it be
it's tangling with minds
undeveloped
and uninteresting..."
Vocals have an odd delay effect on them: a wide modula-
tion twists the delay time so that the echoes range from Darth
Vader to chipmunks in the background. Just enough to sound a
little crazy.
Once again the sliding improv, but this time with the
distortion still on. A little faster, too. More anger, more
tension. Building up...
Final stretch: hit a note, hold it, then stomp on the
distortion pedal and hold down. The feedbacker kicks in and syn-
thesizes a 5th harmonic tone. Then click this in the loop like
the initial electonic beeps, only these are nastier. Sharp.
Pointy, even. beep Beep BEEP!!!
"Change the sight
and recite the music
living correct
on the edge of the bridge."
Let the final, angry mix play a bit, then unlatch the
hold mode and let it fade. The End.
No applause, but then again hardly expected any. The
song was meant to weed out the pop-drek lovers. Besides which, a
gratuitous 10-minute bass solo is a sure cure for insomnia!
And he wasn't about to "play pretty" just for Ratz.
But a few patrons had moved to tables closer to the stage
to get a closer look: *real* music lovers and musicians with the
usual "you can do *that* with just a bass?" look on their faces.
This was *his* audience, the one *he* played to. And there was a
fair number of them, too.
"Good."
\/\/\/\/\/\/\/\/\/\/\/\/\/\/\/\/\/\/\/\/\/\/\/\/\/\/\/\/\/\/\/\/\
Everything (c) 1992 to me. "Reglamusic" lyrics by Mike Friedman
(my bro) and music by me. Yeah, it's a real song, and this is
how I play it. Convenient for the writing exercise.
Drop me a line, eh? I'll give you an "I put up with his story"
PostScript certificate upon request! :-)
--
Mark "Klone Crimson" Friedman is friedman@cis.ohio-state.edu .................
"There is nothing former "Beat poets, "If you put a hungry ferret in your
about King Crimson." not children." trousers, he'll run around..."
- Robert Fripp, 5/11/90 - anonymous - Nigel Tufnel (Spinal Tap)
From: oroboros@acca.nmsu.edu (The Wyrm Ouroboros)
Subject: Re: Trance Entrance [part 4]
Date: 9 Jul 92 11:34:34 GMT
>\/\/\/\/\/\/\/\/\/\/\/\/\/\/\/\/\/\/\/\/\/\/\/\/\/\/\/\/\/\/\/\/\
>
> Final stretch: hit a note, hold it, then stomp on the
>distortion pedal and hold down. The feedbacker kicks in and syn-
>thesizes a 5th harmonic tone. Then click this in the loop like
>the initial electonic beeps, only these are nastier. Sharp.
>Pointy, even. beep Beep BEEP!!!
>
> "Change the sight
> and recite the music
> living correct
> on the edge of the bridge."
>
> Let the final, angry mix play a bit, then unlatch the
>hold mode and let it fade. The End.
>
> No applause, but then again hardly expected any. The
>song was meant to weed out the pop-drek lovers. Besides which, a
>gratuitous 10-minute bass solo is a sure cure for insomnia!
>
> And he wasn't about to "play pretty" just for Ratz.
>
> But a few patrons had moved to tables closer to the stage
>to get a closer look: *real* music lovers and musicians with the
>usual "you can do *that* with just a bass?" look on their faces.
>This was *his* audience, the one *he* played to. And there was a
>fair number of them, too.
>
> "Good."
>
>\/\/\/\/\/\/\/\/\/\/\/\/\/\/\/\/\/\/\/\/\/\/\/\/\/\/\/\/\/\/\/\/\
One of the patrons looks towards Freddy. A well-built, tall black
man, not really out of place -- but what he's wearing, the entire
ensemble, is more than a little curious. Tweed replaces the leather
that many of the patrons wear, but the sunglasses remain. Feathers,
whether an affectation or something else, are braided into his hair.
A few 'glitterbangles' on one arm, very out-of-place -- but then, so
is everybody here in the Chatsubo. A collection of cast-offs.
"Are you open to some accompaniment? I occasionally am seen
with the band 'Maestro and the Musical Madmen', using my skills on the
mandolin. Raw, unadultered skill -- no chips. My instrument is what
might be called a modified acoustic. Meaning, of course, that I .can.
use electric/electronic amplification-modification if I care to."
The accent is curious -- until you realise that he is speaking in your
own native language, at a very high level of fluency.
Greymist
The Silent Dark
From: friedman@cis.ohio-state.edu (Mark "Crimson" Friedman)
Subject: Trance Entrance [part 5]
Date: 12 Jul 92 22:23:23 GMT
Freddy was speedily punching up a program on his beat box
when a conspicuous bar patron sauntered towards the stage. His
dress reminded Freddy of a college professor, in that it was
tweedy and all, but his selection of personal effects certainly
didn't go with the job and making him look more at home in the
Chat'. While he didn't look particularly tough (as most of the
bar-goers strove to appear), he obviously had an incredible sense
of personal style.
"Must be a musician," Freddy mumbled and smirked.
"Are you open to some accompaniment?" the man said in a
clear, even, articulate voice.
"Errr, not right now, eh? This is sorta an audition for
the management." He thumbed over in the direction of Ratz. "But
maybe later, eh? I take it you're a seasoned player?"
"I occasionally am seen with the band 'Maestro and the
Musical Madmen', using my skills on the mandolin."
"Mmmm, never heard of 'em, eh? Then again, I'm from Ni-
agara. Acoustic group? Any good?"
"Raw, unadultered skill -- no chips. My instrument is
what might be called a modified acoustic. Meaning, of course,
that I can use electric/electronic amplification-modification if
I care to."
"Ahhh. I got a Appalachian dulcimer back home with both
a PZM and a humbucker, eh? But it's electric night tonight..."
He kicked in a flanger and slapped out a quick Wootenesque
flamenco triplet riff. "Well, I'm already negligent in my enter-
tainment duty, but if you hang around maybe we can talk some shop
later..." The man grinned and had a seat.
Freddy continued into the mike, "Say hey, folx: back to
the show." He kicked in the rhythm box (driving 7/8 meter) and
thought up a crunchy guitar comp to it. Sort of an E-phrygian
romp (evil-metal type sound). Then he added in the bass: slap
and pop, with the strongest beat falling on the 2, of all places.
"Today in the car
By the side of the road
Was an orange on the street
And a bright sparkling flare"
"The darkness was lit
By the fire of light
By the side of the road
In the stare of the night"
Vocals were pumped through the old distortion/feedbacker
guitar pedal to make it sound reaalllly grungy (as well as to
cover up his not-too-pleasant vocal tone). The lyrics were again
by his younger brother, a hardware artist down in the southern
reaches of the Sprawl near Atlanta. The Stray Toaster had less
of a feeling for music than he had for words: Freddy got hooked
on the Beat-poetesque writings and used them almost exclusively
these days.
"Hostile, hostile
The worries become
Hostile, hostile
The blaze of none
Hostile, hostile
And one will become
Hostile, hostile
Your will is undone"
This chorus started out softly growled, gaining intensity
and volume through each of its two repetitions until Freddy was
screaming into the mike at its completion (the compression of the
distortion pedal automatically compensated for the level). The
sampled guitar riff repeatedly arpegiated up a diminished chord.
Evil. Tense. Yeah! Back to verses...
"Lit by the flame
Out of the darkness
By the side of the road
Of the black wilderness"
"During this time
The rabbit layed to rest
By the side of the road
In a dark empty nest"
Fairly nonsensical, but still with a subversive-intrusive
feeling. Almost an insane reasoning to the words. Cool. Chorus
again and...the change.
Freddy hit the bridge and broke into a synth-only passage
of ringing bell sounds over a strong sustained analog sounding
bass. The 7/8 phrasings now felt like a 7/4 waltz, the beat los-
ing intensity as it gained its freedom. He clicked out the dis-
torted vocals and spoke softly into the mike. This was pumped
through a reverse-delay algorithm that flipped around the sound
into Backmaskland:
"enim fo seirrow eht hguorhT
enodnu saw epoh ehT
emit fo tserc siht nI
stneicna eht fo pleh eht htiW"
The words, all mixed up and inverted, were never intended
to be comprehended, less some insanity befall the unlucky
listener. This line was repeated thrice, upon which the main
guitar and bass riffs came back in, the calm overtaken by storm.
Distortion on.
"The catalyst screams with delight
By the side of the road
The one without the light
It's a dark, dark night"
And the chorus again. Then the outro over the music of
the chorus soloed over by Freddy's humming. It was analogous to
an electric kazoo: the distortion gave the humming all kinds of
harmonics and body, making is sound like a guitar, the line was
fluid and turning as only a human voice could do. Or maybe
Holdsworth.
Finally hit the end in unison: fermata. The sampled gui-
tar he held and faded, while the fretless he let ring, feeding
back on the house speakers, bending the neck (a la Belew) to coax
out some new harmonics.
Hey, a bit of applause, even! Figures this kind of crowd
would like dark metal in stead of calm newage backgrounds. Oh
well, he'd have to play this up a bit more...
"Thank ya, folks." He mumbled into the mike as he
watched a group of patrons (including a woman in some sort of
military garb: odd that, in this place?) straggle out of the bar.
"Guess they don't groove to 7 like I do," he thought.
Tough luck. Dance music was way too square for his
taste...
\/\/\/\/\/\/\/\/\/\/\/\/\/\/\/\/\/\/\/\/\/\/\/\/\/\/\/\/\/\/\/\/\
Everything (c) 1992 to me except "The Side of the Road" lyrics by
Mike Friedman (and music by me).
Drop me a line, eh? I'll give you an "I put up with his story"
PostScript certificate upon request! :-)
--
Mark "Klone Crimson" Friedman is friedman@cis.ohio-state.edu .................
"There is nothing former "Beat poets, "If you put a hungry ferret in your
about King Crimson." not children." trousers, he'll run around..."
- Robert Fripp, 5/11/90 - anonymous - Nigel Tufnel (Spinal Tap)
From: friedman@cis.ohio-state.edu (Mark "Crimson" Friedman)
Subject: Trance Entrance [part 6]
Date: 15 Jul 92 02:12:55 GMT
"Lonny's girls want to dance."
Freddy spun around. "Huh?" He was facing Danny's holo-
image.
"Lonny's girls want to dance," he repeated.
"This is *my* show, eh? Screw Lonny's girls!"
"You'd have to pay Lonny for the service of the girls."
Seeing Freddy's confused expression, Danny put his hands in front
of him (palms forward as if he were pushing a Yugo or something)
and started the lesson. "I suppose I'll have to fill you in,
since you're new here. Lonny's girls, shall we say, are the
*real* house 'talent' here. Do you follow?"
Freddy grinned. "Oh, I see..."
"Yes. Lonny has an agreement with Ratz: sort of a sublet
on the Chatsubo."
"Mmmmm..."
"Lonny's girls like to dance. When Lonny's girls dance,
they are essentially in 'attract' mode. Male patrons enjoy this
display. They order drinks to help in the entertainment. This
makes Ratz happy."
"I see. The old 'dance music == beer sales' equation
still holds true all over the world..." He shook his head sadly.
"In addition, imbibing alcoholic beverages also gives the
patrons more courage to approach the girls to pursue further ser-
vices. This makes Lonny *very* happy."
"I could imagine."
"Also, the happiness does a 'trickle-down' back to the
little people as well. Lonny's girls get their nightly wages
from Lonny and they are happy. In addition, Ratz gives you a
percentage of the night's earnings, which makes *you* happy." He
clasped his hands together. "Do you understand my reasoning
behind stating the fact that 'Lonny's girls want to dance' now?"
"Yeah, but you're assuming that I only play for money.
Wrong-o, compu-boy: I'm a freakin' millionaire!" He gave a smug
smirk.
"Then why are you playing here?"
He shrugged. "I dunno. Wanted to go and see places. Ya
see," he looked over his shoulder conspiratorially, "I'm supposed
to be locked up in the looney-bin right now. The psychs think
I'm experiencing some sort of psychogenic fugue, that I believe
I'm someone who I'm not." He winked, "But why not just let 'em
think that while the heat fades off my tail, eh?"
Danny looked obviously confused. "Well, I don't..."
"Awww, don't worry about it. Just don't tell anybody,
eh? I need a place to lie low for a while, to kick out the
jams." He turned the volume knob back up on the bass and grinned
evily at the floor. "And if you *do* tell, just remember that I
know some tech-support people at Sony..."
"We have nothing at all to do with Sony."
"Yeah, yeah, whatever. Even if you *aren't* Sony models,
I'm sure they'd have a field day with the patent violations,
aye?"
Danny nodded, "Yes, you *should* be in an asylum."
He rolled his eyes, "Whatever. Anyway: dance music?
Sure, I guess you guys can help me out, then..."
Floyd popped into existence behind a drum kit, sticks in
hand and grinning for ear to ear. "Dibs on the skins!"
Freddy chuckled. "Why not: it beats canned beats. Okay,
Danny, you take guitar." The appropriate instrument simply ap-
peared. "Play sort of an ostinato pattern of eight notes: C D F
G Bb 8va-C..."
"But that's only six eighths."
"Yeah?"
"And the music is in 4/4, I assume."
"Dance music usually is, otherwise Lonny's girls would
trip over themselves..."
"So the problem is, six-eighths is one quarter note short
of a 4/4 measure."
"Yeah, and it evens up every 3 measures, right? That's
the fun part: you get different accents over those 3 measures.
Breaks it up a bit."
Danny's eyes appeared as though a light bulb had been
turned on inside his head. "I see now: polymetrics! Brilliant!"
"Yeah, ain't it though? Too bad I didn't invent it. Oh,
and slap a 3/16 quarter-turn regen delay on that: it creates even
more accents and internal rhythms." Danny smiled like a child
with a new toy, which wasn't really that bad of an analogy.
"Floyd?"
"Yo!"
"Simple 4/4, backbeat 2 and 4, use closed high-hat eigths
except on the 1 and the 'and' of two are open. Play with the
kick to get the kids butts a-shakin'. Oh, and no crashes or
fills: this is a groove, and we don't need any noisy interrup-
tions..."
"Will do."
"As for me..." He started slapping out a syncopated bass
line, working with the upbeats, while still making sure everyone
knew where the 'one' was. He stepped up to the mike (while still
playing), touched up a small room (bordering on gated) reverb
patch on it, and addressed what remained of the crowd. "Sorry
for the delay: equipment problems, eh? Anyway: One...two...one,
two, four!"
Danny and Floyd kicked in a cue. Freddy saw that Danny
had an immediate grasp on the guitar part (with a shit-eating
grin on his face), but Floyd needed a little lesson in playing in
the pocket (too square, man, too square!). Oh well, it would do
for now.
"To go through a stage
Is like madness
Living between one
Is worse than all
If I had a reason,
It would be nothing
And if I had nothing
It would sum up life"
And sure enough, nubile young women (presumably 'Lonny's
girls') took to the small dance floor. From their erotic gyra-
tions, Freddy evaluated the groove as an infectious one. Kool.
"Leaving this way might
Be so much better
Hanging on the thin line
Of sanity and sickness
Have it as you may
Something has changed
For the better, but
It's not quite better
It's living in a dream
And waking up to nothing"
Freddy started to work on the drummer's strictness of
timekeeping. He nodded back to Danny, signaled "hey, follow what
I do here" with his eyes, and started to anticipate the accent on
the third beat of the measure. The AI followed suit with the
kick drum, funking up the beat a bit more.
"This is my procedure
It ends, it builds, it discovers
Life, with two ways of
59 different reasons
To go into eternity
Living with different phases
Wondering what others might think
Noticing the mind's eye work
Having garnered the best
But, living in obscurity
A treasure worth having,
Yet not having yourself"
They held the groove for about two minutes longer. Fred-
dy yelled back to Floyd and Danny "HALT ON ONE - MY CUE". He
nodded to mark the fourth measure to the end, and 17 beats later
they all ended in sync.
A smattering of applause from the 'girls' (while wiping
sweat from interesting portions of their anatomy) and other pa-
trons. He also noticed that bar service had picked up a little:
it seemed Danny's model of the Chat's micro-economy was indeed
correct.
He also watched as one of Lonny's girls walked up towards
the stage... and winked at him? He started to wonder how far
'trickle down happiness' went in the Chatsubo heirarchy...
\/\/\/\/\/\/\/\/\/\/\/\/\/\/\/\/\/\/\/\/\/\/\/\/\/\/\/\/\/\/\/\/\
Danny and Floyd a la Jim Gaynor, "Thin Line" lyrics by Mike
Friedman (and music by me). Everything else (c) 1992 to me.
Drop me a line, eh? I'll give you an "I put up with his story"
PostScript certificate upon request! :-)
--
Mark "Klone Crimson" Friedman is friedman@cis.ohio-state.edu .................
"There is nothing former "Beat poets, "If you put a hungry ferret in your
about King Crimson." not children." trousers, he'll run around..."
- Robert Fripp, 5/11/90 - anonymous - Nigel Tufnel (Spinal Tap)
From: friedman@cis.ohio-state.edu (Mark "Crimson" Friedman)
Subject: Trance Entrance [part 07]
Date: 11 Aug 92 02:01:55 GMT
"Gracias, folks: we'll be back after a short break..."
Freddy grabbed a towel from his bag ("don't leave home without
one!") and wiped the sweat off his forehead. He turned back to
Danny and Floyd, "You guys want anything to drink? I'm
parched..." He ignored the anticipated response and walked off
toward the bar, bass still strapped to his back. The AIs started
up some background tunes on their own.
Ratz greeted him. "You had me worried, artiste."
"Yeah, well Danny set me straight, eh? Gimmie a Three
Mile Island iced tea, por favor..."
Ratz motioned to a junior barkeep and kept talking, "I
like what I see. Not much for music myself, but I see the custo-
mers like it."
"Yeah, that's just it though, eh? Lowest common denome-
nator. Kids are spoon-fed this pop drek these days. Too bloody
wrapped up in the image of it all. Feh..." He took the drink
from the barkeep and swallowed some, half choking. "Good stuff."
[cough]
"That's just the way it is."
"Well it shouldn't be."
"I don't know how you can change it."
"Change starts with the individual. We gotta do it one
at a time. It'll catch on, eh?"
Ratz shook his head. "Well for now, you keep playing the
music people like. I have to sell drinks."
Freddy slammed his drink down on the bar. "That's not
the fucking bottom line, man! Don't you get it?" The harsh tone
of his voice elicited some sideways glances from some of the pa-
trons. "Music isn't an ad campaign for alcohol. Music is soul,
it's feeling, it's emotion!" He pounded his fist down.
"Maybe, but maybe you're getting a little more emotional
about it than I care for."
He smirked, "Yeah, maybe, but it's all *I* think about.
The moment record companies placed themselves between the artist
and the public was the day the music died. It was cheapened:
both the artist and the public got less and less from it, with
the record execs getting more and more."
"Well, then maybe you should start your own record com-
pany..." Ratz turned and walked away, leaving Freddy to contem-
plate his final words.
But hell, why not? He *did* have a couple million newyen
to front for it. He could make his own little Subversive
Musician's Front to undermine the whole bottom-line profit indus-
try...
* * * * * * *
"Sure boy
Leave it be
Find the true intensity
Fill the void,
Check the noise,
Run with the wind and leave the toys"
Freddy soon had Danny and Floyd jamming like two seasoned
session players. Between songs, he'd "think" the song he was go-
ing to play. This knowledge was then translated to MIDI data,
transmitted out of the jack in Freddy's head, through a cable,
and into Danny's physical unit, which he in turn then shared with
Floyd.
In this manner the raw "notes" of the composition were
immediately known so that the musicians could pay more attention
to actually playing together. Freddy started teaching the AIs
how to funk it up: playing in the pocket, the groove, syncopation
and anticipation. Their tendency to rhythmically quantize every-
thing was his main concern...
So now they were making Sly and Robbie proud while keep-
ing Lonny's joy-toys occupied. Freddy's own part was a simple
eighth note octave slap line, but put through a three-eighths de-
lay to create internalized rhythms. Floyd was tapping out an
electric reggae beat, with an immense reverbed snare landing an
the three (in fact, everything had that big reverb sound...).
Danny was comping on a clean guit sound, with slapbacks on the
quarter note.
"Next up
Run the gambit
Don't be fooled by any of that
Find a way
Not right away
But leave it anyway"
An auto-harmonizer split his voice into tight thirds,
since lyrics weren't readily conveyed as MIDI data. Besides, he
really didn't feel like perfect-voice chips to steal his show!
His voice wasn't near perfect, and maybe not unpleasant. Still,
it was human.
He looked back at the two to make sure they caught the
bridge. They did, of course (Danny switching to a string swell
followed by orchestra hit), having the exact changes stored in
memory, but it was simply a habit of his when playing with new
musicians. Their ease with new arrangements pleased and bothered
him simultaneously.
The Age of Automation. Live with it.
"Downtown
You're in trouble
Better leave here on the double
Can't you see
It's not TV
Run south, or west, or best just flee"
Funny that: when he had escaped from the asylum two weeks
earlier, he had indeed went south and west. Proof positive that
life imitates art...
\/\/\/\/\/\/\/\/\/\/\/\/\/\/\/\/\/\/\/\/\/\/\/\/\/\/\/\/\/\/\/\/\
Danny and Floyd are Jim Gaynor's, "Anyway..." lyrics by Mike
Friedman (and music by me).
Drop me a line, eh? I'll give you an "I put up with his story"
PostScript certificate upon request! :-)
--
Mark "Klone Crimson" Friedman is friedman@cis.ohio-state.edu .................
"There is nothing former "Beat poets, "If you put a hungry ferret in your
about King Crimson." not children." trousers, he'll run around..."
- Robert Fripp, 5/11/90 - anonymous - Nigel Tufnel (Spinal Tap)
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